


no one knows how to use colour like you

by attemptnumbereleven



Series: every colour imaginable [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, but it's also kind of funny?, poor martin, the others joke a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attemptnumbereleven/pseuds/attemptnumbereleven
Summary: Five times the gang taunt Palermo about Berlin, and one time they don't.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: every colour imaginable [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832083
Comments: 70
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I've added this one into a series with my other work just as I think they follow on quite nicely, but you don't have to have read the other one to understand this! Looking to do six chapters!  
> Enjoy!

When Martin agreed to re-turn his life upside down to do the Bank of Spain heist, he certainly had underestimated the social aspect. In all of his previous heists, it had been him, Andres and a few other faces at best. Now he sits in a room entangled with an entire group of people he cannot fully trust. 

In the week before they returned to the monastery in Florence, Sergio stopped by Martin's apartment again to give him what he called 'some guidelines to keep you and others safe'. Martin knew instantly that Sergio was not going to be making a visit to everyone, and that this lesson was just for him. 

"Now, Palermo," Sergio had started, and Martin had to bite back the laugh arising from the formality, "I've been spending a lot of time thinking about how to introduce you. This is in part your plan, so people will know we know each other, but it might be better to not give much more information than that. I'd appreciate it if you didn't reveal too much about yourself and your past."

Well, that's a way to say it. Martin doesn't actually have a problem with keeping to himself this time, so he nods firmly. 

"Okay, so that's that sorted," Sergio breathes what Martin just about notices as a sigh of relief as he crosses the top line from his list in his notepad. "I will be appointing you as a leader inside of the bank, and I obviously see you as fit to the task, but I want to warn you now that there have been known to be, um, _power struggles_ among the group. I won't however, accept any attacks within the group." 

Martin shrugs, realising that Sergio _definitely_ remembers the time Martin beat the living shit out of one of his and Andres' old acquaintances who tried to take over an operation and accordingly gain a larger cut of the loot. 

"I think the rest is pretty straight forward, no sneaking off of the monastery grounds, you are also not to bring any weapons with you that I have not authorised myself, that kind of thing."

Martin nods and looks at Sergio. He's trying so hard. Martin would be flattered at these attempts of 'safety' if he didn't know that Sergio only wants him on the heist as he knows it better than anyone else, well alive, at least. Martin still can't help but feel like there's something Sergio is neglecting to address. 

"There's one more thing," Sergio says, pushing his glasses further up his nose, "one of the gang, um, Helsinki, um, he, um, shares your _....interests_. I'd also appreciate it if you, um, refrained from..."

"You'd like for me to not have sex with Helsinki?"

"Yes, I mean-no. Just please do not have sex with Helsinki. It's _important....for the_ _plan,_ that you don't get attached." 

_There it is!_

"Don't worry, Sergio, I'm not going to fall in love and ruin your heist plans again. That will _not_ be a problem this time, that I can assure you. But, having sex with Helsinki? I mean, I haven't seen him, but I can't make that promise."

When Sergio introduces Martin to the group a week later, he manages to breaks his own rule. 

"And, this," he extends his arm toward Martin with a small smile, "is Palermo. He helped to create the heist plan many years ago. He will be teaching us about getting the gold out and will be acting as leader when you are in the bank."

Martin's satisfied with that, so leans further back into the wooden chair that creaks with every breath he takes. He nods to the group, then looks back to Sergio to continue introductions. 

"So he's Berlin's replacement, then?" The woman known as Tokyo pipes up with a bitter smile. Martin winces and makes a mental note to spill something on her smug face at breakfast at some point before the heist begins. 

"Well, no, Tokyo, he's not. In fact, Palermo worked with Berlin to create the plan in this very building when um-" 

Martin watches Sergio decide he's said too much, watches as Sergio decides to simply stop talking instead of digging himself out of the hole. 

"So you knew him, then?' Toyko's interrogation finds its way towards Martin and he deems it safe to simply nod. 

"This is the mysterious wife number five!" Nairobi pipes up, and Martin is disappointed. Until now, he'd liked her the most. 

He tries to laugh along. 

"No, not quite, Nairobi," Sergio resolves, and Martin can't watch, can't listen, he just _knows_ Sergio is going to make this far too difficult, too complicated, too _wrong_. The idea of someone else explaining the relationship he'd shared with Andres is incomprehensible. Martin barely even knows which words he'd even start with to explain it. "Berlin and Palermo, they were..." Sergio pauses, and Martin can see him testing different words in his head, "friends." 

The man Martin is now supposed to call Bogota snorts. Too loudly.

"Yeah, _Professor,_ with that logic I've had lots of 'friends'. You forget I was also at Andr-Berlin's wedding and had to watch that one try to stop himself from crying and or wanking for ten hours straight."

Martin makes a mental note to look into how he could kill Bogota in the heist and make it look like an accident.

The group explodes: laughing, joking about the wedding, asking about the wedding, but continuously looking at Martin. 

"That's enough, I think," Sergio coughs, rubbing his cheek in exhaustion. _It's the first day,_ Martin thinks. "next up, is Marseille. He will be..."

Martin doesn't hear the rest. He's too consumed by being the centre of attention, being the butt of the joke, for the first time in years.

He hates it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for you kind and lovely comments, promise I will respond to each one when I get a moment!  
> Enjoy!

That same night, Martin finds himself outside Bogota and Marseille's door holding his penknife. He purses his lips, looks down at the knife, glinting in the light from the candle across the hallway, and decides to enter. 

"What the fuck are you doing, Martin?"

He had kind of been expecting them to be asleep, but he can make this work. He swallows, and closes the door behind him without a word, entering the bedroom. 

"We all need to have a conversation don't you think?" Martin says, trying his very best to keep his voice level. Call it training for when he's in the heist. 

"Put the knife away, Martin, you're embarrassing yourself," Bogota says, not looking up from his book. Martin never knew he could even read. "It would take you quite a long time and a lot of effort to kills us _both_ with _that_." 

Martin flips the knife back into its sheath and slots it into his trouser pocket. He leans against the door and looks at them both for a moment. He thinks about the last time he'd seen both of the men he would have referred to as close friends, and then decides to _not_ think about those moments. Martin's betrayed by his heart as it continues to twists at the bare thought of Andres. 

"You both don't know me, okay?" Martin decides to say eventually. "This morning was bad enough, I don't want them all asking lots of questions. They don't need to know anything. It's in the past, okay?" 

Bogota huffs out a laugh. "Come on, Martin-"

" _Palermo_! You have never met a Martin in your lives." Martin interrupts, crossing his arms. "We've never done heists together before and we've certainly never been to any weddings together before! Sergio doesn't like me as it is, and I've promised him I won't make things difficult by getting tangled up in the past." 

"Martin, they know now. You can't take it back. I'm sorry if I revealed more than you or the Professor wanted, but it's done. They know, or at least suspect, that we've all known each other for years. You, me, S-Marseille, Sergio and Andres. I don't know what the problem is, unless it's about _him_? In that case, you flushing red at the simple mention of Andres doesn't help your cause, either, but maybe you're not ready to have that conversation yet, hm?" 

Martin glares at him. How dare he, how dare he be so rational and truthful! Before he can think of something snide to reply, Marseille pipes up. 

"He's right, Martin." Martin opens his mouth to correct him, but just sighs instead. He looks at Marseille expectantly, only to find that that was all Marseille wanted to say. _Pretty on brand,_ Martin thinks. 

"Okay, well, can we all just avoid those conversations then? Like, if someone asks about us and _those times_ , just change the subject?" Martin doesn't intend for it to sound so needy, and as he speaks he thinks at how stupid he sounds, but he ultimately doesn't care. 

"I will make no promises." Bogota says firmly, and Martin thinks that might just be good enough.

He turns to leave, but then he can't help himself. The words begin to tumble out in a breathless frenzy. "Do you know how hard it was? How hard it was for me?" 

"Martin-" 

"No, no, _listen._ You're fine talking about it, so why shouldn't I be, huh? I didn't hear shit from him for years, then I see on the news that he died in that mint? That was not how it was supposed to be. It just wasn't." 

He hopes that they pretend to not hear the crack in his voice. 

"I saw it on the news too." Marseille says, and Martin remembers that they both would have had their own emotional reactions to Andres' death. As if Martin was not the only person in the world that knew Andres. Sometimes, it had felt like that. 

"I get it, Martin," Bogota concedes, closing his book and putting it in his lap, "It can't have been easy. We all knew how you felt."

"Yeah," Martin laughs, and he suddenly regrets drinking before coming into this room, "the joke was on me, as always, right? I just - I thought that coming here, and continuing the- _our_ plan, that I could feel closer to him. But, I think it's too much, it's-" 

He's interrupted by a shrill squeal. The three men look towards the door. Shrill laughter follows, but it's slightly distant. 

_The chapel._

They, in a formation that feels oddly familiar, make their way in their pyjamas to the chapel. They find Nairobi, Denver and Tokyo throwing a notebook between themselves, and laughing. Tokyo takes a swig of what looks like tequila, and then puffs out her chest and reads from the book. 

" _Tatianna,_ if only there were more languages to help me describe your eyes-"

_Oh no._

Denver's laugh - it's been one day and Martin already feels like sharpening his surgeon knowledge to remove his vocal chords - brings him back to a sense of consciousness. 

" _Tatianna,_ which god sent you to me?"

Tokyo continues to read the page, putting on her best impression of Andres. Martin feels the knife burning in his back pocket. He watches the three of them screech in laughter and dance around the room - _Andres' room, the room where-_

" _Tatianna,_ you have awoken something so feral within me-"

"Guys, it's late, let's all just go to bed, yeah?" Bogota softly approaches, reaching his hand out to receive the book. 

"Noooo, this is too good!" Tokyo draws out, clutching the book to her chest. She throws it to Nairobi in a flash, who opens it at a new page. 

"Oh my god, this one isn't about Tatianna!" Nairobi breathes in horror, looking up at the others with a grin, as if she's about to drop a massive bomb, and Martin has a horrible feeling that she _is_ about to.

"It just has the word 'Martin', then an equals sign then the word 'soulmate' after it. That’s all that’s on the page." 

There's silence, for a moment. Martin finds himself unable to breathe. He can't seem to feel his hands, which hang now limply by his sides. 

And because the universe hates him, Martin's mouth betrays him and riskily says, "Well, I wonder who that's about." 

"You've known him the longest, Palermo, you ever meet a Martin?" Denver asks fairly innocently, and Martin tries his very hardest to send signals through the back of his head to Bogota and Marseille standing behind him. 

"No, I don't think I did. I think _I_ would have known if he was gay, no?" He's playing with fire, but he can't make himself care. Bogota's right, they _know_ , there's no going back. 

He gets a laugh for that, but it doesn't feel like a reward. 

"I remember a _Martine_ in 2016. Beautiful French lady." Marseille says, and Martin nearly audibly sobs there and then. He makes a note to find an excuse to hug him in the next few days. 

"Oh yeah, that smudge could be an 'e', I suppose." Nairobi says, satisfied. 

"Let's see what else we can find!" Tokyo announces, looking absolutely feral, suggesting a change in pace. She turns and starts to go through another cabinet. 

"Let's not," a voice emerges, which is revealed to be Sergio as Martin turns to look for the source, "let's instead go to bed. Come on." 

Martin starts to leave the chapel behind Bogota, seeing Sergio's appearance as being sent from the gods. Too many near misses today. 

When he gets back to his room, Martin lets out the breath he didn't realise he was holding and covers his face with his pillow. He needs a better plan of attack. Pretending like Andres didn't exist and that he didn't know him doesn't work. 

Tomorrow, he decides, he will play along. 


	3. Chapter 3

Martin wakes with a newfound energy. He showers, shaves, and even treats himself to a stretch. It feels oddly nice to wake up questioning the point of waking up in the first place. Some nights, well _most nights_ , he willed the universe to send him on, so that he could wake up instead on the rooftops of Vienna, laughing, drinking, and dancing with _him._ However, today, instead of waking up disappointed, he wakes somewhat upbeat. It's refreshing. 

He saunters down the stairs to the kitchen, where he finds Nairobi swearing into a pan of eggs. 

"Morning, sunshine," he drawls as he fixes himself a cup of coffee, speaking a little bit louder than necessary to rouse what he can only assume would be a hangover possessed by Nairobi and Tokyo after last night's antics, "I like mine over easy." 

"Fuck off." Nairobi says, but she laughs. Martin smiles as he realises he's getting closer to figuring out how to talk to her. And not just Nairobi! This whole socialising thing is far too rusty for Martin, but he feels smug as he makes more progress. Now, all that's left just to join in on the jokes at his expense, and he'll have them exactly where he wants them. 

"Thank god you're all millionaires, you'd never be able to make a living cooking," he says, shooing her aside. "I'll take over from here." 

"Really? Palermo, you are the _best._ " Nairobi exclaims, quietly of course. She swiftly exits, and Martin can't even find in himself to be angry when he notices she's taken his coffee with her. 

Martin used to love to cook. The last time he'd been in the monastery, he'd made the finest of meals. Andres initially demanded control of the kitchen, as with everything else, but eventually decided that Martin should learn to, in his sarcastic words, 'earn his keep'. He'd taught Martin everything there was to learn about the culinary arts. Oh no, Andres never called it _cooking_. 

When Martin rouses himself out of the memories, he finds himself making a hollandaise sauce. _Eggs benedict, then._

It takes everything in him to not look over his shoulder as he whisks the sauce, in search for Andres sitting on the counter, checking that he's doing it right. Martin's very aware that he's still too surprised to not see him fiddling through the cupboards in search for the most divine spices and herbs. 

Martin decides it would be sacrilegious to upscale eggs benedict with the collection of spices Andres spent the better half of two years cultivating, but keeps it in his mind to return at a later time to see what's still there. 

When he carries the plates out to the table, he is met with a cheer. It feels nice. What doesn't feel as nice is that as soon as the cheer emerges, it dies, and the conversation that was being held before his entrance is resumed. 

"So yeah, we find this notebook and it's got all of these _looove_ notes in there from Berlin! They were too much, so funny, all arty and shit." Tokyo explains as she happily takes a plate of eggs without saying thank you. 

Martin's thankful he has the excuse of getting more eggs to leave the conversation. When he's back in the kitchen, he sees his reflection in the window and tries to psych himself up. 

"You can laugh. You can joke. You can joke about him. You can joke about yourself. Come on, come on, come on." He furtively whispers under his breath, lightly slapping himself on the chest, running a hand through his hair, setting his shoulders, before he re-enters the lion's den. 

He returns outside. He's confronted by the desire he had for them to have changed the conversation in the time he was gone. He is yet again disappointed. 

"Oh-oh yeah, then there was an entire page just devoted to her hair! Who does that?" Nairobi laughs, shovelling a forkful of eggs into her mouth. 

"Berlin does that," Denver says, his attention mainly focused on Cincinnati eating his breakfast, "I don't know why you're so surprised. Maybe I should tear some pages out to recite to the love of _my_ life?" 

Stockholm flushes red, but manages to still say, "Yeah, because if you ever said any of that stuff of your own accord, I wouldn't believe it was you." 

The group laughs at that, and Martin has to force himself to chuckle, albeit two seconds later than everyone else. It still feels wrong, and the joke wasn't even directly about Andres this time. 

"I mean, there were more notebooks in the drawer, I'm assuming they had more letters in them, if only Professor would let us back inside-" Tokyo starts, interrupted and dismissed by an 'absolutely not' from Sergio. She huffs, and then says, "I just don't know how he had the time to write all of that shit! What do you think, Palermo? Or are you disappointed you didn't make an appearance in the love letters?"

_Oh shit. Okay. We can do this. Come on._

All eyes at the table on him. He puts down his fork and takes a breath. 

"Well, it's not like he'd sneak off when we broke into jewellery stores, claiming that he just 'had' to drop everything and write about his most recent wife's toes. Oh, now on second thought, that did happen once." 

The table roars. 

"Tatianna, your toes are as perfect as if they'd been chiseled by Michelangelo himself!" Nairobi says, impersonating Andres, and poorly at that. The table laughs again, Tokyo slapping her hands to the table as she catches her breath. Martin's far too aware of how long it's been since he's been part of a group. 

"Say what you want about the woman, she _did_ have lovely toes." Martin offers, and the table laps it up! He's acing this, he thinks.

"I want to know more about this _Martine_ lady. The 'soulmate'." Tokyo muses, swirling the coffee in her stoneware mug. 

_Oh. That._

Martin's face betrays him and falls before he is aware of it. He doesn't dare look at Sergio. 

Tokyo manages to somehow continue to speak. 

"Like, is she still around? Does she know he's dead?"

"She must do," Martin says in a voice he doesn't recognise or notice. "It was all over the news. Every channel? His face. You go outside. Every paper? His face." 

He can't decide from the facial reactions from the others whether he's said too much or not. Something within him decides to keep going. 

"At least it was a good picture of him. Mugshot from a partially failed robbery in Vienna. I have one to match, you know." 

"Partially failed? What does that mean?" Raquel asks, and of course she does. He tries to figure out if Andres would have liked her or not. He thinks he probably would have, in a really odd I-tried-to-get-you-arrested-and-or-killed way, and so he decides to like her too. 

"Let's just say he got distracted writing poetry to his fourth wife, eh?" He manages with a small, coy smile. He gets a few laughs from the table, which soon resumes eating. 

He's made it! 

He eats mostly in silence for the next eight minutes, before standing and taking some plates back to the kitchen. He shudders out a breath, in triumph, in anxiety, in disappointment, in everything. 

The worst thing about mourning Andres is that he always made Martin feel _everything_. Every emotion possible, every feeling that is tangible, even the ones that aren't. And that's simply because living with Andres was living with everything. Living in every colour imaginable. He's been living in a reduced, monochromatic, palette ever since he saw that first news bulletin. 

He's drained from the social interaction, so busys himself by beginning to wash some of the dishes, using a sponge to wipe the butter knifes. Maybe joking along didn't really work either. He had to be on too high of an alert for too short of a time for it to be an efficient tactic, but it worked. Combined with general avoidance, he might be able to make it through until the heist without too many incidents. Maybe it'll get easier. Martin laughs to himself as he remembers for a fact that it doesn't get easier.

He smiles down at the sink as he remembers the 'partially failed' robbery in Vienna. 

_Partially failed, my ass._

He'll always remember how alive Andres' eyes looked as Martin pitched him the plan to intentionally get arrested and then proceed to steal a watch that had allegedly been held in Swiss police custody for decades. 

_A beautiful watch,_ Martin thinks, as he unhooks its clasp, sets it to the side of the sink and sends his hands further into the soapy water. 


	4. Chapter 4

Martin finds that the next few weeks go rather smoothly.

He goes through a series of days where he's exhausted at the very mention of Andres, of toeing the boundary of avoiding confronting memories and addressing the barrage of questions about Andres from the others.

One night, Martin realises with a start, that they must miss him too. That realisation makes it easier, partly because he discovers that he doesn't need to be _totally_ truthful.

He sits at lunch one day and retells the story of the time that he and Andres managed to avoid a run-in with the Greek mafia just through winning a poker game. It was actually the Italian mafia, but the rest of the group doesn't need to know that. 

Tokyo leans back in her chair, somehow unsatisfied with the story (completely out of character for her, Martin thinks) and asks, "And then what happened? You go home and suck each other's dicks?" 

Martin huffs out a sharp laugh at her brazen approach, hoping to appear unfazed as takes a moment to decide how to respond, before pursing his lips into a thin line, nodding and saying, "Oh yeah, Tokyo, you have no idea. Mind-blowing blowings. All night, all day. Didn't even break for food. Honestly just a constant stream of his cock in my mouth, and mine in his. There is nothing that man couldn't do." 

The conversation manages to detour into other members' run-ins with mafias, and Martin smirks as he determines he's in the clear. He thinks about how it feels nice to joke, how his heart twists an inch less at the mention of Andres now. He's confronted by the fact that it's getting _easier_. Easier to live without him. He previously used to only consider getting through each day as a success, to see forgetting the memory of Andres as success, but to start to enjoy himself? To not be immobilised by grief? He's acing this whole mourning thing, even if it's a few years late. It's only when he sees Sergio staring at him with something unreadable in his eyes that he's brought back to earth. 

A few days go by. A few jokes go by. 

Sergio continues to be unhappy with him. He knows this because Sergio tells him so. 

"I'm unhappy with your behaviour, Palermo." Sergio says after he's happy that the door behind him is secured shut. 

"I don't think I know what you're talking about." Martin says, leaning against the table. 

"Pleas-Look, um, I know you're still working through all of your...emotions, but...there's a line, Palermo." Sergio, forever looking like he is searching for the right words to say, crosses his arms over his chest. Martin groans, but ultimately sighs. He knows he's right. 

"I know. It's just...it's so hard to figure out where the lines are. You know what they're like! They don't stop! And honestly? It's your fault. That first day, saying I was his 'friend'. Read the room, Sergio! Bogota? Marseille? I can't pretend that they both didn't see me sobbing into a bottle of vodka in the kitchen when he married Tatianna! You managed to tell the group not enough and too much all at once, and of course now they want more!"

"Palermo-"

"No! You cannot punish me for adapting to the situation that you put me in. Breakfast. It's all 'what would Berlin have thought about that?' Lunch. It's 'tell us about what living with Berlin for ten years was like'. Dinner. It's 'when was the last time you saw Berlin, Palermo?' I joke, I distract, I embellish, I lie, I avoid. I'm adapting to protect myself. Because if I answered all of those questions properly, it would _hurt_." 

When he finishes, he's shuddering more than he'd like to realise. He looks up at Sergio, and he's nodding. 

"I understand." Sergio says, and Martin gapes at him. Is that _it?_

"They want to know, Sergio. They want to know everything about him. And I realised, it's because they miss him. Not as much as us, mind you, but they feel the need to include him in conversation. They want to imagine that he's here with us. Although, they don't show it in the best way." 

Sergio nods. "Yes, the notebook incident was not ideal."

"But also not my fault, okay? You cannot pretend as if it's just me trying to ruin everything by being obsessed with him. I walked into that room and they were _searching_ through all of his things. It was almost sacrilegious." 

"Yes," Sergio says, looking away. Martin remembers how many times he seems to forget that Sergio is perhaps the only other one who understands. Why don't they just meet everyday for an Andres debrief? "I had to seize the notebook in question, as well as anything else I thought might be inflammatory." 

"Can I see it? The notebook?" Martin asks in a small voice. 

Sergio wordlessly reaches into his desk, pulls out the notebook, looks at it for a moment, as if he can't decide, but then reaches it out towards Martin. He holds the notebook, but Sergio doesn't let go, and Martin doesn't pull it towards himself. 

"I miss him so much." Sergio says, and Martin is surprised. They stand there for a small moment, the notebook connecting them. "I just wish you'd tell more stories that were true. You're right, I was wrong. We can't pretend he didn't mean anything to us...it's on the last page."

At that, Sergio lets go of the notebook. Martin figures he won't get anything else from him today. In fact, Sergio has probably used his entire quota of social interaction for the day in the last few minutes and once Martin leaves the room, will as a result not make another appearance until breakfast tomorrow. 

Martin draws his thumb across the leather notebook's cover, before going straight to the last page as instructed. It's there. In his often illegible, artful handwriting, it's there. 

_Martin = soulmate._

"I just don't understand. He wrote prose, poetry for his wives. He hated mathematics. Why this? Why this for me?" 

It's only when Sergio replies that Martin realises he said that out loud. 

"It's more your language, don't you think?" 

He drops the book as if it had burned him. As if, after finally reading the words with his own eyes, it had been designed to self-destruct. He can't find it in his conscious capacity to unpack that information. He doesn't know how to even begin to confront that information. Martin had lived in what ifs and maybes for years, long before Andres had left him that night in the building he stands in right now. So many nights wondering what might have happened had Martin confessed, made his intentions clear, or decided to follow Andres to the Mint against his wishes. Now, he is forced to let himself wonder about the thought process that led Andres to write those words. 

He needs air. 

He sprints to the courtyard, leaning against a pillar as his chest moves erratically of its own accord. He wills his pulse to steady, wills his mind to not _think_ of anything, let alone Andres at a desk with his finest pen, writing an equation for Martin. _That_ equation. It means too much on its own, too much combined with everything Martin feels, but then not enough when combined with the knowledge that he has no indication of what it actually meant to Andres, the author. For a while, Martin saw his life as a book written by Andres, one that he had been designed to live in. 

He leans his head back against the pillar as his senses return to him. 

"Hey, what's up, Palermo? It's very concerning to see you having a panic attack, when we have nothing to worry about right now. What are you going to be like in the heist, hm?" 

Tokyo. Of course. 

"I'm fine," he manages, and he doesn't even believe his own words. He can't see her face. All he can see is Andres' handwriting. "Just needed some fresh air." 

"You're pathetic. You don't think we see through your act? _Boom boom, ciao?_ All bravado. You're _broken,_ Palermo. It's clear to everyone, even Helsinki, and we know you have him wrapped around your... _finger_. It's sad. I feel sad for you." Martin hates her the most. She's so twisted, knows exactly what to say to upset or rile up people, and when. 

"You feel sad for me? That's cute, didn't know you cared that much. It's nice to know." He tries to volley back, without poking her unnecessarily. He just wants to go to bed. 

"Yeah, I feel so sad for you. Your life need when Berlin's actually ended, right? And now you've been drafted in to fill a gap for the heist, but you're a dead man walking, and you know it. And worse? I don't think you care if you die in the Bank of Spain. Am I right?"

Of course she's right. He'd love to die in the Bank of Spain, after fulfilling their plan. They'd find him immortalised in the hardened gold.

Instead, he says, "Maybe I won't help you all after all, I'll just stay here and watch the news reports. I couldn't care less you, and I certainly couldn't care less about this Rio kid. Let him rot in Soviet jail or wherever the fuck he is for all I care."

He's bluffing. He couldn't imagine getting this close to the plan after so long of waiting and pining, and then to not go in and see it for himself. And he does care about Rio; it's obvious to all of them that he's being subjected the very worst that unregulated torture has to offer. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Regardless, it ignites Tokyo. Martin can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing quite yet. 

She darts her hand out to his chest, her palm over his heart. Her other hand clasps his wrist. Martin tries to figure out if he's in danger or not. He decides he deserves whatever is about to happen. 

Tokyo smiles in a way he hasn't seen before. 

"Berlin...is alive, did you know that?" 

_Oh. This is worse than her dragging a knife across my skin._

Her fingers press deeper into his wrist and harder against his chest, just beyond the boundary of pressure into pain. 

"You are a twisted, disgusting child." 

"You feel that? That shortness of breath? The sound of your heart beating? Your ribs meeting your heart as it beats faster, faster, faster? Your throat going dry? Eyes starting to water? Yeah, even when I'm lying, your body betrays you, doesn't it? You're so obvious. I'd almost think it romantic. I'd love to die and still have someone this in love with me years down the line. It's a shame, really. He'd be so much better than you at this." 

She's right. Of course she is, the bitch. 

"You understand?" She says as she releases him, staring him down as she backs away. 

He nods. He understands. Of course he does. 


	5. Chapter 5

After the incident with Tokyo, he tries to make it to his room without visibly sprinting.

He closes the door behind him, leans his head back against the wood and tries to figure out at what point in the journey to his room he started crying. The salty tears run down his face as he tries to regulate his breathing. 

_In. Out. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe._

He wipes his tears, furious at Tokyo, mainly, but also at himself. Maybe he made it too easy for her. Easy prey. He tentatively puts his own hand to his heart, where it continues to rattle in his ribcage. 

_"Berlin's alive, did you know that?"_

Oh, how he wishes that was true. How he wishes he could see him again. Not even to touch him, or to speak to him, just to see the way his cheeks pull when he smiled all feral. To see, one more time, the way he'd look at Martín when he explained something, anything, as if he had been, for once, the smartest and most special, the only, man in the room, in the world. To bear witness to how he'd roll his dress shirt sleeves up, in a methodical folding which was nothing short of performance art. To be in the presence of him looking out into the horizon with a glass of wine Martín pretended tasted better than the one he would buy in his youth in Argentina at the corner shop for a handful of coins and notes. To just see the way the setting sun illuminated his cheekbones. Martín doesn't ask for much, just those things. Only those things. 

Now, all he has is the promise of gold and a heart that _won't stop beating._

He tries to steady himself by sitting at his desk, opening his maltreated notebooks and reviewing his designs. He checks the measurements that he's checked, verified a million times before to centre himself. It works, and he let out a slow breath. He turns to the back of his own notebook, finding the most recent thing he'd been working on. A mould to make the smallest, tiny piece, of metal, to replace a segment in the strap of his watch. He picks up the prototype he'd spent his evenings making and studies it, looking at the only thing he wanted to take with him. Everything else was already in a pile to hand over to Sergio for burning. But this? This? It would fit into his pocket. 

He looks forward to the day in the heist that he can pour gold into it. 

He's roused out of his focus by knocking on his door. He stands, and opens the door to reveal lovely, sweet, precious Helsinki behind it. He doesn't deserve him, and knows that the 'boom boom ciao' is the only thing that keeps them both safe. In another world? Another world where Andrés had never existed? Maybe. In this world? Martín's capacity for love is compromised. But it's been nice, these last few weeks, having someone to hold.

Helsinki opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the sound of shouting down the hall. They make their way closer to the sounds, to see Stockholm, Denver, Tokyo, basically _everyone_ shouting at each other. He can't even make out the words, let alone any specifics. When Tokyo's verbal assault makes its way to him, _Berlin this_ and _Berlin that_ , Martín forces himself to say something misogynistic and raises his voice to join the shouting. He still hasn't recovered from his last interaction with her, but here they are. It's not long before the Professor appears and puts a stop to the nonsense. He watches as slowly, people return to their rooms, Helsinki included as he squeezes Martín's shoulder in an unreadable promise, until he looks up at Denver, also alone in the room. 

"Not your bedtime either, huh?" Martín finds himself saying, and Denver shrugs. He decides he likes Denver more somehow when he's using that insufferable voice of his. 

"Mon- _Stockholm_ , she-" Denver attempts, but stalls and lets out a shaky breath. 

"You look like you need a drink." Martín says, half-selfishly, because he knows that he could really use one himself. 

"Tokyo drank the last of the wine this afternoon." Denver huffs, and Martín can't help the look of disdain at the sound of her name that spreads across her face. 

"Well, maybe, we go a bit further afield."

"What do you mean?" 

Martín wouldn't call himself and Denver _friends,_ per se, but he certainly hates him the least out of the remaining members. Helsinki's different, Martín decides, but he can't place what that means. 

"I lived in this monastery for....an amount of time. You think I don't know where the nearest bar is?"

Denver grins.

And that's how Martín ends up in a club, dancing with Denver, holding an obscenely pink coloured cocktail on the penultimate night before the heist. The music. The _music_. It pounds through his eardrums, into his limbs, and he can't help but laugh when Denver grabs his shoulders and _jumps_ with him to the beat. The volume of the music luckily drowns out Denver's laugh, and Martín wonders why he hadn't thought of this before. He could have snuck out every night! 

"I need another drink." Denver announces, running a sweaty hand through his hair. 

"Go on, then," Martin shouts above the music, "You're a millionaire, my darling. I bought the last round. I'll be right here." 

Like that, Denver is absorbed into the sea of dancers. 

Martín lets himself let go for the few minutes he's alone. He winds his hips, takes a swig of his cocktail, dances with complete strangers, has a drink accidentally spilled down his back, but he doesn't care. 

A man grabs his hips and Martín hisses. _Yes._ This is more like it. This is more like what the club was like when he was last here. He'd stumble in after being unable to ignore the sounds of newlywed lovemaking, with a mind that needed taking up and an arousal that needed seeing to. 

He lets himself be danced with. It's _good._ He hasn't even seen his dance partner's face, but it doesn't matter. It's easier that way. He can imagine, can re-see the hands on himself as Andrés's, re-hear the voice whispering in his ear as speaking Spanish rather than Italian. 

He's turned around at the end of the song, to meet a man who is rather attractive. He wonders whether Denver would notice if he took a detour to the bathroom with this stranger before they returned to the monastery. 

"I'm Luis. You dance so well. What is your name?" 

"Martín." He says automatically. 

"What? Martín? That's your name?" A voice behind him says and Martín freezes. 

_Oh fuck. Okay, maybe he'll be too stupid to rea-_

_"_ Martín...oh my _god._ Does that mean-"

"You'll have to excuse me and my friend, Luis. I'll find you again." Martín lies, and drags Denver by his shoulder to the terrace of the bar, where women and men stand, bare skin freezing in the chill of midnight with only cigarettes between their lips to keep their bodies warm. 

"Mar-Palerm-I don't know what to call you! I don't know what to-"

"Stop talking." Martín says as he reaches into a passing woman's pocket and retrieves a packet of cigarettes. He waits a moment before he picks a lighter out of a man's jeans as he stops to answer his phone. 

He takes two cigarettes out, puts one in his own mouth and one in Denver's and lights them. He's thankful, that Denver remains silent while they smoke for a moment, watching the tendrils of smoke spread into the night. 

"So-"

"Yes." 

"Martín-"

"Yes." 

"Martíne-"

"No." 

"You-"

"Yes." 

"Berlin-"

"Yeah."

"Did he-"

"No."

"Okay." 

They're silent again for a while, and Martín lights them new cigarettes. He can hear some English pop ballad reverberating through the walls of the bar. He wishes he was more drunk for this. 

"I won't tell anyone, you know." Denver says, as if it was a given. 

"Forgive me if I can't take your word for that." 

"You should! We're brothers now, Palermo." Martín finds himself laughing, and when he looks over to Denver, sweet Denver, he sees him chuckling too. 

"So all this time, we've been joking about you and Berlin and it was true? You were together? I mean we kind of assumed something went on there, and I always got a gay vibe from him, you know." 

"No. We weren't. It was one-sided. My side."

Anyone else would take that response to insinuate that a further reply wouldn't be necessary, but Denver continues to speak anyway.

"But the notebook! He wrote that Martine-you were his soulmate. What does that mean?"

"I don't know." And that's the truth. How he wishes he knew.

"So what is it then? You lived together for ten years, and you loved him and he didn't know?"

"Not quite." Martín manages to bite out.

"Did you ever tell him?" 

"The last time I saw him, he...we..." he can't find the words, he stumbles, stalls, restarts, and somehow Denver still understands. Martín makes a note to look after him specifically in the bank. 

"Look, man. That is really sad. I'm sorry. Honestly? It makes a lot of sense, you get this look sometimes when we talk about him, like, you were stopping yourself from looking over your shoulder or something." 

Martín reaches for the cigarette box only to find it empty. 

"I won't say anything." Denver says again, flicking his cigarette stub onto the path at their feet. 

"Thank you." Martín says, as it's all he can find himself able to say. 

"Do you want to talk about him? You know, now that I know?"

Martín opens his mouth to hesitate, but then thinks better of it, and stays quiet instead. Denver, true to form, continues to talk. 

"Come on, Denver, we have a long walk ahead of us back to the monastery." Martín says, willing his feet to start moving. They do. Denver takes a moment, but he follows. They wander up the road for a few minutes before Martín finds himself able to breathe again. 

"How did you actually meet? Love at first sight?"

"You know how it goes, Denver, you tell your friend you can fix his air conditioning unit in his jewellery store on a saturday evening. Of course the store gets broken into by a devastatingly handsome Spanish man. He finds you, not cowering away in a corner, but continuing to work on the AC. He tells you that you have lovely fingers, and asks if you have any experience in alarm systems. And like in all good and tragic love stories, you stand up, take his hand and fall in love almost instantly."


	6. Chapter 6

Denver isn't happy. Things haven't gone... _quite_ to plan. Throughout all of the planning, The Professor has instilled into every member of the gang what to expect at every single point of the plan. It's an overstatement to say that Denver meets some unexpected events on that first day. 

They make it into the Bank of Spain as planned, just. And that's where the plan stops being on course. Once Palermo reveals himself to the hostages, it all goes downhill from there. 

He doesn't expect to hear gunshots as he takes the phones from the hostages, filling their hands instead with the familiar red jumpsuits and masks. He watches as the people, _hostages now_ , tentatively re-dress themselves, their hands not shaking but vibrating with the fear he's sure they'd never dreamed of interacting with.

He watches as one woman crosses herself at every move she takes, from doing the zipper of her suit up, to placing the mask over her eyes.

He watches as another whispers to himself as tears escaping through the bottom edge of the mask. 

He watches as one traces a name that's tattooed on their wrist. A child? A spouse? A parent? Denver swallows and pretends not to feel his heart twist. 

He doesn't expect to hear gunshots, but he does. The hostages scream, and the words 'It's okay, it's not in here' escape his lips as he makes his way to the edge of the room to look for the source.

He doesn't expect to hear Palermo's cries, screams, from down the hall and shouts from Stockholm and Helsinki. 

_Shit. He's been shot, hasn't he?_

He hadn't expected Palermo to be shot, and not expected it to be by one of the guards. That hadn't been part of the plan. 

He doesn't expect to see one of the hostages stand as he turns back to the room. The words 'sit back down' die in his throat as the hostage removes his mask. 

He doesn't expect gunshots on the first day. 

He doesn't expect wounds, and not on their side, anyways.

He doesn't expect rebellious hostages, not on the first day at least. 

But what he certainly doesn't expect is Berlin to be standing in front of him, very much not dead, throwing his eye mask to the floor and pulling a gun out of his pocket. _That_ was definitely not part of the plan. 

"Berlin," he breathes. "you're...oh my god."

"Not quite, dear Denver. Now, shall I go see to those gunshots, or are you going to grow the balls to do so? You know, I had many lengthy conversations with The Professor about the guards. I knew they'd cause problems."

Denver can only find it in himself to shake his head in disbelief. It's too much, it makes _no_ sense. 

Luckily, it's at that moment that Bogota returns and stares at Berlin for a full minute before laughing in a deep guffaw and pulling the man into an embrace.

"Andr-"

"Berlin. What should I be calling you?"

"Bogota."

Berlin laughs. "Clever." Denver doesn't dare ask. 

"How are you, old friend? How'd you manage this one?" Bogota asks.

Berlin smiles, and Denver just _knows_ the story he's about to hear is one he will hear about ten times in the next hour as the rest find out. 

"It's a simple story really. They shot me up real nice in the Mint, but I didn't die. That excited them very much, and they kept me in the depths of prisons unseen for years, beating the plans and The Professor's whereabouts out of me. I never spoke a word. They got bored and let me go, in the middle of a desert. Took me weeks to make it back to real civilisation, and then months to make it back to Spain. Three days ago, I made it to Madrid. I'd been planning how to get a message to The Professor and to- but _then_ I saw the blimps fly over. I just _knew_. I slipped into the Bank of Spain minutes before the Civil Guard assumed control. Beautiful, right? Such a story." Denver watches as Berlin waves at a camera and blows a kiss in its direction. 

"I thouht you were supposed to be dead by now anyway." Denver says before he realises, and Berlin just laughs. 

"It's funny, Denver, when the police think you hold valuable information, they spare no expense to try to keep you alive. Pumped me full of all sorts of experimental drugs. Something worked, and thus I stand here before you, a healthy, alive man."

Denver says nothing, he just pulls the man into a hug. 

"Bogota," Denver says as he releases Berlin, "can you lead the hostages into another room? I think Berlin has some people he needs to meet, don't you?"

Denver lets out a laugh as realisation crosses Bogota's face. Berlin definitely has people he _needs_ to meet. 

"Denver," Bogota says in warning, as Denver follows Berlin out of the room, "It's not good." 

Denver nods. He feels responsible, in some way to warn Berlin, to mention about Palermo, about how he was at the monastery, to prepare him, to-

"Berlin! What the actual _fuck?"_ Nairobi's screech brings him back to earth, and he laughs as he says something about Berlin pretending to be hostage, contributing to the mess of exclamations that engulfs Berlin's entrance. 

"There will be time for re-introductions later, friends," he says, nodding at Nairobi. Berlin smirks at Denver as he nods towards Stockholm and he feels himself flush. There's a lot of catching up on its way. He thinks about all of the things that have happened in his life since the Mint. Thinks about how Berlin's life was on pause that whole time. "Now, where is my favourite engineer?" 

"Through there," Stockholm points, looking a little bit apprehensive. As his wife, of course she knows everything Denver knows. It appears they both share the same concern. _This will be something to watch_ , Denver thinks. "But he's messed up pretty bad." 

It occurs to Denver that Berlin would have watched Palermo's big reveal at the start of the heist, where he uncovers himself and announces the attack. He'd watched Palermo practice that multiple times in the mirror, covertly of course, and he wonders what Berlin had thought of Palermo, while he was hidden as a hostage.

"Gandia?" Berlin asks, and Nairobi nods. Berlin tuts, clicks his tongue, and Denver realises that he never thought he'd hear those noises again. "I did tell The Professor..." 

They all enter the next room, where Tokyo is leaning over Palermo's face shining a light into his eyes. Stockholm and Bogota were right, it does not look good. 

"Oh my god!" Helsinki breathes, pulling Berlin into a hug that looks far too big for him.

"What's happening- _oh my fucking god."_ Tokyo laughs out, nearly dropping her magnifying glass onto Palermo's eyes. 

"What's going on? Don't know if anyone knew, but I can't see right now, so a bit of help might be nice." Palermo says, sarcastic and biting as ever. 

"Palermo...curious...of all the names to choose." Berlin says and Denver has to double check, as he's sure that Berlin's eyes look glossy. Maybe it's a side effect of his treatment. 

Palermo stiffens, hands clenching. He lets out a sharp breath. 

"Tokyo," he says, far too calmly, "I'm not responding well to whatever you injected me with. I'm having hallucinations."

Berlin laughs, which only seems to unsettle Palermo more. 

The room is quiet, Tokyo looking gapingly at Nairobi, unsure of what to say. Denver, still stood next to Berlin, certainly not a hallucination, can feel his pulse pumping in his throat. 

"What do you mean, Palermo? What kind of hallucinations?" Tokyo tentatively asks, turning the light off and pocketing the magnifying glass.

"I can hear someone who is not here."

Berlin laughs again, softer, and again, before it seems to die in his throat as he realises that Palermo isn't joking. Denver steals a look at Berlin's face to find it unreadable. Something between relief, joy, disappointment and hurt. 

"You did it, _mi amor._ You made it to the Bank of Spain. You came to get our gold for me." Berlin whispers, and Denver suddenly feels his eyes stinging. He knew most of the ins and outs of Palermo's story with Berlin now, after that night at the bar in Florence, on the walk home, but the gaps in the story really stemmed from Berlin. Had he loved him back? Looking at the in question man now, how he breathes out a shudder, how he wrings his hands together, Denver feels confident to confirm. 

"Listen. All of you," Palermo says, firmly. "We all had lots of fun at the Monastery, lots of jokes at the dead guy's gay friend's expense. I even laughed for real sometimes, some of it was really funny. But now, we're in the Bank of Spain. I am your leader. I don't know how you've done it, how you even had the time to plan to pump me full of hallucinogens, but I'm asking you to stop. This isn't funny. I'm not laughing." 

Denver watches everyone in the room stop, unsure of themselves. His mouth feels dry. He feels guilt. He knows they feel it too. All the joking, all of the laughs, all of it, has broken an already broken man. He watches Berlin's face as it hardens, realising what has happened in his absence.

"Palermo," Tokyo whispers, "I injected you with a painkiller. No hallucinogens. Promise." 

"Listen, bitch. I'm telling you now, I know you've done something. I can hear him. What did you do? I knew you had it in for me from the fucking start, you bitch. Now-"

"That's no way to speak to someone who holds you ability to see in her hands." Berlin says, moving closer to where Palermo is laid out. Denver clenches his teeth, watching the risky manoeuvre. 

"Shut _up_ , Andrés! Fuck off!" Palermo cries, his hands flying up to his ears. 

Berlin reaches out, delicately takes Palermo's hands and lowers them, shushing the whole time. 

"I'm so proud of you. I've missed you so much." 

Denver suddenly feels as if the rest of them are watching something extremely intimate. 

"Can someone please tell the ghost to leave? He won't listen to me."

"I'm not leaving, Palermo. I'm right here."

Berlin crouches to the side of Palermo's bed, finally releasing his hands. Freed, Palermo launches his hand to Berlin's throat. Berlin tips his chin back and laughs. 

"Very good, _coraz ón. Mi ingeniero. _I told you time would reunite us."

The penny drops. 

"Oh my _god. Andrés,"_ Palermo sobs, releasing his hold on Berlin's throat. "I can't cry, my tear ducts are fucked. I can't see you. I want to see you. I need this to be real." 

"I'll take the glass out now, Palermo, just lie back." Tokyo starts, pulling her tweezers back out. 

"That won't be necessary, Tokyo. In my youth I spent years restoring the finest works of art. Now, I'm going to restore two more." 

Denver looks over at Stockholm and smiles. He doesn't have to say anything; she understands. 

"Fuck _off,_ Andrés. I swear, if I'm just talking to air right now, I'm going to be so mad with you all." Palermo says, but this time he's choking back laughs.

"He's there, Palermo." Denver says, not being able to hide the smile in his voice. 

He watches Palermo relax a little. It's nice to have his word be trusted. 

"How?" Palermo whispers as they all watch Berlin pull on gloves from the surgical kit. 

"Another time. I sent a letter. To your flat in Palermo, a month ago. I understand now, that you might not have been there to receive it." 

Palermo lets out another tearless sob. 

"Helsinki. Sedate him. The rest of you, out." Berlin orders, and Denver doesn't feel in a position to not comply. 

Nairobi lets out a breath they'd all been holding. 

"Well. That was..."

"Something." Tokyo supplies, taking her gloves off. 

Denver makes himself busy overseeing the hostages, the sight of Palermo not believing Berlin was actually there not leaving him. It's not too long before he is 'summoned', _Berlin's words of course,_ back to the room, to see Palermo sitting up, his eyes bandaged over. He's awake, and Denver watches him take a drink from a water bottle before he announces his presence. 

"Denver, you there?" 

"Yes, Palermo. What can I do? 

"I need another witness. You say you can see him. I need you to confirm, in case I am visually hallucinating too." 

Berlin barks out another laugh. 

"I promise you, Palermo. He's here. He's been in police custody this whole time." 

"I bet they feel pretty stupid, letting you go now, huh?" Helsinki says with a laugh as he undoes Palermo's bandages. Berlin touches his shoulder as he takes his place, and Denver's sure he hears the words 'thank you for taking care of him' come out of Berlin. He crouches in front of Palermo, and seems to, unnecessarily, take his face into his hands. 

"Alright, open them slowly, Palermo." 

He does. 

Denver pretends his heart doesn't twist as he sees, silently, Palermo's face light up, his smile, initially unsure as it slowly spreads across his whole face and then infects Berlin's own face. 

"It's you." Palermo says, in a small voice, seemingly surprised. His hands reach up to Berlin's face, touching every part with every finger, as if testing it. 

"Yes. It's me," Berlin confirms, laughing softly as Palermo accidentally pokes him in his eye. "Want us to match, is that it?"

"I didn't...I think my left eye is still not so good." Palermo says, accepting the eyepatch from Helsinki and securing it on his own face. Helsinki says something about checking on Tokyo, and Denver nods. He's now the appointed babysitter of Berlin and Palermo, his _leaders._

"I-"

"Yeah."

"Palermo-"

"I like hearing you say that."

Berlin hums in response, nodding. 

"I have a lot to-"

"Berlin. Shush. I have to tell you first. I love you. So much. I never told you, to your face at least, before. That fact nearly killed me in those years without you. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought you were dead. So, I love you. I hope you don't mind." 

Berlin looks at Palermo, apparently speechless, and Denver feels the need to intervene. 

"He might still be feeling the effects of the sedative?" He offers, and Palermo shakes his head. 

"No! I'm serious. _Andrés._ Please." 

"I saw those blimps and I knew it had something to do with you," Berlin replies and Palermo seems satisfied with it as a response and smiles. "I snuck in as a hostage, you know. I'm standing between all of these bankers and civilians and then you come around the balcony and reveal yourself. I..."

Berlin trails off, and Denver can't believe he's been allowed to watch this, and for this long. 

"Yes. _Yes._ " Palermo says, understanding, and Denver can see the years of grief rolling off of him. 

They sit there, both crossed legged, in the middle of the Bank of Spain, holding each other's faces, for what feels like seconds for Denver, but when Berlin stands up and holds his hand out to Palermo, Denver realises that an eternity had just passed between them. 

"I think I'd like to see our gold." Berlin says, and Palermo just grins. He takes his arm and lets himself be led out of the room, towards the elevator. Berlin nods firmly at Denver as they pass him and Denver can't help but smile in response. He knows too much, after all. 

And if, before the elevator doors shut behind them, Denver sees Berlin take his fingers to Palermo's forehead, trace the outline of his face, say something unintelligible and then pull him into a fierce kiss, he doesn't say a word. 


End file.
